


This, That, Drinks and Dreams

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom John, Bottom Paul, Drunk Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Top John, Top Paul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 06:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: Realistically, George knew the risks. He knew that Paul was in a temper about John going off with Brian. He knew that Paul tended to drink more than he ought to. He knew that Paul was a horny, incorrigible drunk. Above all, he knew Paul McCartney. Or, so he thought.Originally posted on Livejournal.





	1. George

Realistically, George knew the risks. He knew that Paul was in a temper about John going off with Brian. He knew that Paul tended to drink more than he ought to. He knew that Paul was a horny, incorrigible drunk. Above all, he knew Paul McCartney. Or, so he thought.

Nevertheless, none of these reasons stopped him from accepting Paul's invitation for a drink. So far he had been right about the first two facts he knew about Paul. On his first drink, the bassist was muttering, "I can't believe John." By the third, it was, "I can't believe that bloody bastard!" The fifth drink was quickly followed with cries of, "And 'nother thing! 'E's a fuckin' ARSEHOLE! Fuck!"

George, on the other hand, had just started his second drink by the time Paul was downing his sixth. He was beginning to suspect that he hadn't really been invited for a friendly get-together at Paul's flat, but rather, as a lifeguard.

"...So, Paul. I guess you're pretty steamed about John going to Barcelona, yeah?"

Drunk though he may be, McCartney could still muster a death glare that would freeze the blood of a lesser man. "I can't b'lieve him, George. Runnin' off like that... Fuckin' queer."

An eyebrow was raised. "You think that's what's up? John and Brian?"

Paul turned his glare at his drink. "I dun know. Your guess... my guess..."

The younger man knew that it was time to stop asking questions about their absent friend, and took a slow sip of his scotch, feeling it burn the back of his throat. Paul was still scowling at his glass when George's eyes fell back, and his fingers playing on its condensation. There was more. He knew it.

Scooting on the sofa to be closer to his inebriated friend, George said quietly, "Paul, you know John went to Spain for us, right? For the Beatles? I really don't think he went so he could shag Brian." He nearly smirked at the absurdity of such a situation, but something told him Paul would not appreciate his sense of humour. "Besides, nothing out of this could break us up." He did allow a smile to come forth now, only one of friendship, and he laid his hand gently on Paul's.

His friend's big brown eyes raised to meet his own. _Bedroom eyes_, John would tease, and Paul would pretend to be angry. "George..." he murmured, and unsteadily rose to sit beside him on the sofa. Never letting go of his hand. 

A red flag began to wave in George's mind, but it was too little, too late. His friend's very male, very intoxicated, very needy lips came down upon his own, and George was too shocked to do anything but let him. "George," he whispered, still pressing wet lips to his younger friend's, "I need you, I need to fuck you... Come on, Georgie, please, please, let me fuck you... Please..."

That request broke the shock that had fallen the young musician, and he pushed his bandmate off of him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he all but yelled. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Georgie, please." His tone was pleading, pitiful. "Please, I just need someone, anyone. I need to... to..."

"Go get a girl, mate," George blustered. "Last time I checked, I wasn't one."

"No no no, George, it hasta be you." Paul's fingers were now stroking his cheek, and he imagined he could still feel the condensation on them. "You. C'mon, is just a fuck. No big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal, Paul!" He was angry now, and stood. "I'm not a queer and neither are you!"

The older man stood as well, on more than unsteady feet. "It don't mean you're queer, ya fuckin' cunt! You're just _randy_. Just let me do it, just once, please."

George gaped at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. His cute friend (when has he ever thought of Paul as anything other than _Paulno_, Paul," he stated, a little breathless. "I'm not doing anything with you."

"You're a fucking cunt, Harrison!" Paul barked, eyes on fire. "John lets me fuck him whenever I want!"

Time stopped. Even the air around them froze, and the only movement made was the hair rising on the back of George's neck. "What?" he croaked.

Paul looked away. "Nothin'. Nothing... Nothin' at all..." He reached once more for his scotch.

"No, Paul, you are telling me. I think I deserve an explanation."

A withering glare. "You deserve nothing. You dunno _anything_ about me or John." With that, he gulped down even more liquor, an expression of discomfort evident on his face.

"Then tell me, you daft arse!" With only a moment's deliberation, George sat beside Paul on the sofa once more. "So you guys are..." The word was hard to say. "...Lovers?"

The man beside him emitted a scornful laugh. "Lovers, fuck no. We just fuck when we're drunk. And if you tell anyone that, I will person’ly--"

"Paul, I won't!" The twenty year-old's shaking fingers lit a cigarette, feeling the familiar calm of smoke swimming in his lungs. "How long?"

"...Few months. Not much more." Without looking at George, he thrust out his hand for a hit of the fag. George simply gave it to him, and lit another one for himself. "We're not lovers. Not a relationship. Just... fuck."

"But why?!" This situation was inconceivable, if not impossible. Paul was a regular pussy hound, and John chased any bird with a hint of a rack. "It's not like you have a lack of female fans around."

Paul almost laughed, smoke spilling through his lips. "It just happened. We were drinkin', 'n he kissed me. 'Nd I fucked him. It just happened." Then without a warning, he released a sob like a keening widow at her husband's grave. "He kissed me 'nd I fucked him, I fucked him, I fucked _everything_!"

George stared in shock at the large tears that began to drip down his friend’s face. People didn’t react like this over “just a fuck”—most men never reacted like this to anything. With only a little apprehension at the aspect of another kiss, the younger man pulled the older into his arms. As he snuffed both of their cigarettes in a nearby ashtray, he felt Paul’s tears burning through his shirt, and he shivered.

“He wanted me,” he whimpered. “I knew ‘e did. But then he kissed me, ‘nd, ‘nd I didn’t know what to do and I jus’ _fucked_ him! ‘N I think he may’ve loved me even, but I just fucked him, again and again ‘n I wouldn’t even kiss him ‘cause I was _scared_, Georgie. I dun wanna be queer, but I want him so bad, I like him so much…” Another sob. “But now he doesn’t want me ‘nd he’s in Barcelona with fuckin’ Brian… and I’ll never tell him that I fucked _everything_ up and I _really_ like him.” He burrowed deep into the chest that was in front of him.

George sighed softly and ran his fingers through dark silky locks. He didn’t know what to say—how could he? Paul had been right; he didn’t know anything about them. So he murmured the only thing he could think of: “He’ll be back, Paul. You know he wouldn’t leave you.”

Paul raised his bedroom eyes to gaze drunkenly, _needfully_ at him, then very slowly as not to fall to the floor below, crawled into George’s lap and straddled him. He kissed him then, slowly but passionately. But this time, George didn’t push him away; he knew what Paul needed and it wasn’t him. If he could help heal the pain that resided within him though, he would be the proxy for John Lennon’s kisses. Besides, they were nice lips.

The kiss became deeper, hotter, harder and George found it difficult to keep his control. Then the man above him whispered against his mouth, “Fuck me. I’ll let you fuck me. I just need you, I need you.” He rubbed their crotches together. “I don’t even let John fuck me, so just do it. Please, please, George.”

Gently, George pulled away from the man who was kissing him. “Why would you let me do it if you wouldn’t let John?”

Paul bit his lip. “’Cause then… I wouldn’t be scared… for John to do it. I wanna be good.” 

George exhaled sharply, a mix between exasperation and impossible arousal. “Paul, you’re not even hard.” He sighed again. “I think it’s time you got to bed.”

“Finally!”

He had to chuckle despite himself as he helped the inebriated bassist to his bedroom. As he began to exit, a desperate voice rang out behind him. “George?!”

He turned and sat on the bed, Paul’s brown anxious eyes boring into him. “Call John. I want you to call him. Tell ‘im I’m sorry. I love ‘im. Please call him, Georgie. I can’t make it without him.”

The guitarist smiled gently. “I will, Paul. Now go to sleep.” He then leaned forward and captured his lips one last time in a deep kiss. He could only rationalize it by “giving Paul what he wanted.” Besides, they were _very_ nice lips.

The kiss lasted until Paul ran his fingers through his partner’s hair and moaned “John” into his mouth. It was then George pulled back and whispered, “I’ll be here in the morning, Macca.”

“Promise, Johnny? You won’t leave?”

“No, I’ll be here.” As Paul’s eyes fluttered shut, George left the room to sit once more on the sofa, confusion still clouding his thoughts and his half-hard cock between his thighs. He picked up the slip of paper that bore John’s recognizable scrawl with a phone number and the name of the hotel he and Brian were staying at.

He may have been young, but he knew how John felt about Paul. It wasn’t obvious until Paul had said it, but once he had, it burned brighter than a fire. It couldn’t be Paul McCartney without John Lennon … And it couldn’t be John without Paul. Even if they were apart, they would come back together.

So George lit another cigarette and reached for the phone.


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Use your brain, John!" He snapped. "He was upset! Why do you think?!"
> 
> "I wouldn't know."
> 
> George released a growl of exasperation. "You, John, fucking bloody you! You and fucking bloody Brian, going to fucking bloody Spain!"

John couldn’t help the heavy beating of his heart as he stood at Paul’s door. The same sun that had shined on him in Spain spilled over him, but here, he felt like he was on fire, and his heart still pounded in his chest. It hurt. It hadn’t been more than four months ago that he and Paul had stood here kissing, that one drunken, starry night. But everyone knows that _everything_ can change in an instant. Or in this case, from one mumbled sentence.

He took deep breaths and clenched his fists. His fingers kept twitching, so he pulled out a cigarette. Anything to delay the inevitable knock he had to deliver to the door in front of him. The nicotine quickly entered him, but did nothing to ease his nerves.

Glaring at the wood, John let his mind wander back to the phone call he received last night. George was a fucking twat. The guitarist had been half-drunk (even though John himself had easily surpassed that point), and he only spoke for three minutes, telling nothing except that he was at Paul’s and that John should come by when he got back the next day. No, not “should.” “Needed.” John scowled. People didn’t tell him what to do. He decided what to do of his own accord, and he had decided to come to Paul’s regardless of George’s call. Plus, the bastard had called collect.

The cigarette burned John’s fingers and he crushed it beneath his toe. What utter _gall_ Paul McCartney had. John was more guarded than most with his heart, but nevertheless, he had hesitatingly given it to Paul in a drunk but gentle kiss. Paul had kissed back.

His heart started hammering again as he remembered his partner’s kisses, those wet, fevered kisses that he had dreamed of for so long. He could hear himself begging for them; pride had been pushed aside and every defense he had built, he tore down himself, just for one more kiss.

Paul’s reply? “It’s just sex.” And he continued to thrust inside, never noticing that not all John’s moans were ones of pleasure.

John had never been with a man before that night, though he’d certainly been curious. He had never loved a man before Paul. If it had just been sexual attraction, he could have dealt with it. It was obvious that Paul shared those feelings. But the feelings were deeper, rooted in his heart and never letting go for a second. But it was painfully obvious that Paul didn’t share those feelings.

He thought of Brian. Brian, with his sweet, toothy smile and his soft, soft hands. He knew Brian cared, and so he had let Brian kiss him, let him touch him through his pants, and allowed himself to do the same. As they had lain panting in their sticky trousers, the hotel phone rang with a woman's voice asking if he would accept a collect call from one George Harrison. After John did so (and at a whopping three pounds), he quietly asked Brian if he could return to his own room. He complied with no attempts for second kisses and more resignation than heartbreak in his eyes. They didn't speak on the flight home or on the drive to Paul's house. Brian knew as well as John did that you couldn't help your feelings.

Outrage surged throughout him as he remembered Paul's eyes shying away from his, even while his cock was still buried to the hilt inside of him. He kept hurting him, inside and out. So, full of anxiety and anger, he rapped on the door. Only a split second before it opened did he wonder how much George knew.

"Good of you to show up, John," the younger man remarked dryly as he let him in. He looked tired, more than probably hungover. John felt a flash of panicked jealousy knowing that George had spent the night with his Paul.

"So where is he?" He felt too big in this apartment. He didn't know where to stand, where to sit, what to do with his hands. He settled for leaning against the wall and glaring at George.

"Still asleep. Don't worry, I keep checking to make sure that he hasn't choked on his own vomit." He paused. "He drank a lot last night."

The glare continued. "Did you drag me all the way back from my holiday to tell me that?"

"Come off it, John, " he sighed, plopping on the sofa. "I knew you were flying in today. Don't pull that martyr shit on me."

"Paul's drinking is nothin' new to me. If you wanted me to help illustrate on him while he slept, I can wait till next time."

"No, John, Jesus Christ. It isn't that he was drinking, it's why he was drinking." George shifted uncomfortably and John could tell that he needed a smoke.

"And why, pray tell, was he drinking with you?" _Oh God, he did it, he fucked him, they did it, I've lost him--_

"Use your brain, John!" He snapped. "He was upset! Why do you think?!"

"I wouldn't know."

George released a growl of exasperation. "You, John, fucking bloody you! You and fucking bloody Brian, going to fucking bloody Spain!"

John's heart finally stopped pounding. Violent desperation flooded him, weakening his knees and stealing his voice. He had to struggle to whisper, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

"Like bleeding hell I don't. Paul told me everything last night." His eyes were cautious on his friend, tensing almost imperceptibly.

The older man’s blood ran hot, mind racing over images of the two laughing at his stupid admission of feelings, at his pleading for Paul’s affections, how he returned each time. Of Paul kissing George. “You don’t know anything, Harrison,” he said sharply. “Nothing, fucking nothing.”

“I do, John.” The guitarist looked softly at him, and John’s anger was replaced sudden confusion. George ushered toward the sofa and John sat.

“He told me what happened. What’s been happening.”

“And you’re… _okay_ with it?”

“No, I’m not,” George said brusquely, “because you’re both acting like fucking bastards. I don’t give a damn what you stick your dick in, but when it starts disrupting _my_ life, that’s when I start caring."

“No one asked you to step in,” John retorted acidly. “What’s it to you that a coupla blokes are fucking—”

“Paul asked me to step in,” Harrison interrupted. “He begged me last night to call you. He was _crying_ over you, Lennon.”

“You’re lying,” John replied automatically. “You’re a goddamn liar, George. Paul couldn’t care less what—”

“Just shut up for one minute of your life!” George yelled, breathing heavily. “You listen now. Yes, Paul fucked things up between you two, but dammit, John he knows that. He knows it and it kills him inside. He really… cares about you.”

Despite the fluttering in the pit of his stomach, John couldn’t just accept it. “What if I don’t care about him, mm? What if I’ve found someone else? If I am with Brian. What then?”

George stood, looking down at John, meeting his eyes with near-frightening intensity. “Then I’ll take him.”

John was frozen to his seat as George gathered his wallet and pack of cigarettes. “Paul’s in his bedroom,” he said, avoiding his bandmate’s shocked gaze. “He’ll be very hungover, so let him sleep. Just…” He sighed deeply, looking oddly defeated. “Just don’t leave.”

Before John could say a word, George was out of the door. The flat was no longer too small—it was too big, and he felt lost. John didn’t let people tell him what to do, but maybe this once, he could make an exception.


	3. Drinks or Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re in a doorway, don’t know whose, but we’re kissing and little-moaning and oh-my-God’ing between our lips. Even through my haze, induced by drink, induced by dream, I know it’s John and I’m terrified. I’m not this and John isn’t this; this should not exist. This kiss, this doorway, this pounding in my head and heart and groin… This is for others. But John ruts against me and I take this regardless.

_It’s hot. I’m hot, he’s hot, so very very hot. I have to break away and make sure I’m not on fire. My face must be burning because John touches it very softly and says, “Kiss me again.” I do, in order to smother the flames._

_We’re in a doorway, don’t know whose, but we’re kissing and little-moaning and oh-my-God’ing between our lips. Even through my haze, induced by drink, induced by dream, I know it’s John and I’m terrified. I’m not this and John isn’t this; this should not exist. This kiss, this doorway, this pounding in my head and heart and groin… This is for others. But John ruts against me and I take this regardless._

_I pull him in the door and find our way to the bed, and I’m supposing it must be my bed because a picture of my family sits beside me on my nightstand as my best friend slips his hot tongue into my mouth. My mother is smiling in the picture, but if she could see this… My clumsy fingers pop open the button on Johnny’s jeans and I force my hand inside. He’s hard like me, so I can’t let us be this. I stop kissing him and throw our pants away. I’ve seen John naked before; I’ve even seen him aroused. This is different, yet so familiar it stems my fear as I settle between his legs. His hole is small, such a contrast from the large dick that is straining for my touch, and I know that I will hurt him. I press forward anyway, his moans resounding loudly for my mouth does not muffle them._

_The fire blazed again when I was inside him, but I ignored it and only focused on the fucking. John only said:_

_“Kiss me, Paulie. Please. Kiss me.”_

_I could not. I could only mutter, “It’s just sex.” Because of drink, because of dream, I thought I didn’t have to add, “That way, we’re not this way. That way we can still be us.”_

_John isn’t able to hear that though. His eyes break and I know that whatever price I paid wouldn’t be able to fix this precious doll. That John and This John are the same, I had just never seen it before—and I broke them both._

_I wrap my hand around his strong cock and stroke him, too ashamed to look him in his shattered eyes. He comes (for me, my mind screams in both terror and pleasure) and I let my own orgasm release inside of him. If he had been a woman, I would have been worried, but he isn’t and that’s the whole problem. I pull out slowly and lie down. The next thing I know, he’s gone, though I hear him in the bathroom, revisiting our drinks from earlier. He would return, but he would not be sharing my bed, he would simply be in it._

_He let me touch him often, let me fuck him, but he never once asked me to kiss him again. The nights blurred, through drinks and through dreams, and he was with me once again. I had fucked him hard; he had moaned loudly and dug his nails into my back. I knew my seed still dripped from him when he says, “Can Brian pick me up here tomorrow morning?”_

_Still drunk, still dreaming. “Why not your house?”_

_“This is better; that doesn’t make sense.” He looks at me pointedly. “Do you mind?”_

_My mind is spinning. “Won’t… Won’t Brian wonder what you’re doing here so early?”_

_“If he does, I don’t care. Tell ‘im we had a few.” He turns his back to me as he lay down. “’Sides, not like we got something to hide.” _

_I knew what he didn't say: we had nothing._

_When I wake up, he is already gone but he had left a phone number for me. Now I knew how much I needed that something. I didn't care if it was this or that but I needed John. It was love that I had been fighting for years already. But all the wrong feelings came to the surface when I tried to show them and John was gone and I couldn't show him the right ones. And I'm hot, so hot, too, hot--_


	4. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Paul blurted out, too shocked to try to contain the question. 
> 
> John wouldn’t look at him, simply snuffed his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be? Christ, I thought we were friends, Paulie. Don’t friends just come over to each other’s flats?” His tone was unbearable.

Paul woke late in the afternoon, with a pressing weight in his head, and a heavier weight in his heart. He hadn’t had the luxury to lie in blissful amnesia before he remembered his situation—he had dreamed about him all night long. He reluctantly opened his eyes to affirm that he was, in fact, alone. His thoughts automatically sprang to the cute, skinny boy that had been in his flat the night before, and he couldn’t help the groan that he released. The memories were fuzzy at best, but they were clearly telling George that he fucked John. And they were kissing him. Oh God. After that, it was anyone’s guess what happened. 

Hesitantly, Paul cupped his crotch, trying to determine whether or not he had convinced the younger man to sleep with him. It took a minute or two for him to decide that he hadn’t. He had probably been too drunk to get it up anyway. 

The bassist groaned again and cursed repeatedly under his breath as he sat up. Someone had thoughtfully placed a glass of water next to his bed, and he apologized for swearing, in the general direction of the ceiling. Geo apparently didn’t hate him. He racked his brain again as he drained the glass. Did he and George sleep together? It was possible, but unlikely. George liked women. He had never shown interest in men, not even in the latest, craziest midnights of Hamburg.

_Neither had I._

Anything was possible. Until John had put his hand on his knee that one night, Paul would have never contemplated the thought of being with a man. However, once it started, it couldn’t be killed. So when John kissed him, Paul thought, _Thank God. Now it can burn someone else._ But it never left him, it just burned brighter. And now he had given the torch to George. Paul stared at the wall, his mind pounding and his lips remembering the young, pliant mouth beneath his. Did he want George? Well, yes, he supposed he did. And George couldn’t hate him too much, if he left him water. But… John.

Paul’s heart ached, drowning in the sudden emotions and memories that came with the mere thought of his lover’s name. John didn’t want to see him. That’s why he left with Brian. John had kissed Brian like Paul had kissed George, and now he’ll never come back. Even if he had loved him, once upon a time, now there was no need to. Brian could give him everything. Paul put the glass back on his nightstand, next to the picture of his family, now smudged with nervous thumbprints. Struggling, he stood. He’d let him go. If John was happy, well, that was good enough. Even if George didn’t want him, he could deal with it well enough, fuck enough girls to make him straight again. Even as he remembered a male voice whispering softly against his lips that he would be here, Paul didn’t know who it was or believe it to be more than a dream.

As he stepped out of his bedroom, he saw John Lennon on his sofa.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Paul blurted out, too shocked to try to contain the question. 

John wouldn’t look at him, simply snuffed his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be? Christ, I thought we were friends, Paulie. Don’t friends just come over to each other’s flats?” His tone was unbearable. 

Paul tried to conceal his growing desperation at seeing his lover. This wasn’t the time, this wasn’t the place. John was dressed in one of his nicer suits, while Paul only wore his shorts. His head still ached and the late afternoon sun was hurting his eyes. He couldn’t do this now. “Is there a reason you’re here, John?” He asked, shifting his weight. “I’d rather nurse this bleeding hangover—”

“I know _friends_ sometimes spend the night over at friend’s flats, eh, Paul?” John was growing louder, sharper and he stood, edging uncomfortably closer.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” he croaked, his voice dry from alcohol and nerves. 

“Don’t you wonder who let me in… Paulie?” 

Paul’s eyes widened. “This is about George? He stayed all night?”

The bassist jumped as John’s hand hit the wall beside him. “Don’t play dumb with me,” the older man snarled. “I know very well what he was doing here.”

How could John know if Paul himself didn’t?! He had to take the defensive. “We didn’t do anything, John. All we did was have some drinks—”

“That’s all you did with me, wasn’t it.” The tryst had been breached, and Paul’s knees grew weak with anxiety. “And that’s all you did with George?”

“No, John, it isn’t like that with me and him, it was just drinks!”

“Bullshit.” John turned away, and the younger man fought the urge to pull him close. “Why else would he have called me, Paul? If you hadn’t tried to’ve fucked him.”

“He called you?”

“You tried to fuck him.”

Paul tried to breathe—he was flailing. “I… I don’t know. I don’t remember, John.”

“Do you want him?” John’s eyes were dangerous and his breath was hot on Paul’s neck. He had cornered his younger love against the wall, but there was no need to. Paul couldn’t have moved from that spot if his very life depended on it. “You want to fuck him. You want him to suck you. You want to _kiss_ him. Don’t you, don't you, Paul?”

“Fuck off,” the bassist whispered. “Just… fuck off.”

“You do.” If Paul hadn’t been the person he was, if he had known John just a little less than he did, he wouldn’t have caught the tremble in John’s voice.

“John, what did George say to you?” Paul could see the pain behind those dangerous eyes now, the fear and the insecurity that he knew had been there. “John, please.”

“You kissed him,” John said quietly, anger subdued in lieu of sad confusion.

Paul nodded slowly. 

“Do you want him? Just tell me.”

“I… don’t know. Fuck, John, I just don’t know.”

“It’s a simple question!” Lennon hissed, leaning forward into Paul’s face. “Answer it!”

“I don’t know what I want!” Paul shouted. “I don’t want any of this!” He wanted to leave, wanted to run, get away, but he was immobilized by the man in front of him. “I don’t to feel this way.”

“What way?” John was truly bemused, and Paul had to swallow his pride. 

“I don’t want to like… a man.” He had to struggle to keep his voice even. “Like _men_. I’m not a poof, John. I don’t want to be queer… I don’t want _you_ to be queer.”

“How long have you known me, Paul McCartney?” John asked sardonically. “How on earth could you think I’m a poof?”

“Letting me fuck you could have played a large part in my assumption, John.”

John sighed and finally pulled his hands down from beside Paul’s head. “I’m not saying I understand it, I’m only saying what I feel. I like women… And I like men. At least I like men to touch me. And… you. I really like you.” He sat and nervously picked at a loose thread on the sofa.

“What about Brian?” Paul sat gingerly next to his friend.

“What about Brian?”

“Did you. Did you, you know… Fuck him?”

“Cor, no.” John looked away. “I may have kissed him a little though.”

“Oh.”

“And I may have tossed him off. But just through his trousers. I didn’t actually touch him.” 

“Is that it then?”

“Yeah, it only happened last night. George called right after.”

“No, I mean… It for us.” 

“So we’re an us now,” John laughed harshly. “We didn’t seem to be much of an us when you wouldn’t even look me in the eye when you fucked me. When you wouldn’t even kiss me. When you left me _begging_ for you.”

“John, I know I blew it!” Paul felt like crying, but he knew he didn’t have enough water in him to do it. “I was confused, I was scared. And I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t think I was scared, Paul?” John’s eyes bored into him, daring him to tell the truth. “I told you how I felt and you absolutely tore me to shreds. Why don’t you think I’m scared now?”

“What do you want me to do?” Paul whispered. “I’ll do it, John. Just tell me what and I will.”

John wouldn’t answer, and the younger man felt his desperation grow. He reached out and placed his hand on his lover’s knee. “Please, John, I’ll do anything.”

“You’re a liar, son,” John said darkly. “You wouldn’t do anything that would compromise your precious masculinity. You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“Do you want to take me?” The question was asked quietly, knowingly, and John tensed under Paul’s touch. 

“Paul McCartney would never let a man bugger him.”

“Do you want me to beg, John?” Paul cried. “Get on my knees and beg? I will, Johnny, I will!” The bassist sank to the floor, both hands gripping the thighs of the man above him. “Please, John, fuck me. Fuck me.”

John inhaled sharply. “I’m not fucking you, you’re just fucking with me.”

“I’ll suck you off,” Paul murmured, and hesitantly nuzzled the fabric-covered crotch in front of him. He smiled when he felt John’s dick jump from just that light touch. He began to administer kisses through his pants, though his heart pounded at the thought of actually giving another man a blowjob. It was worth it when John moaned loudly as the younger man gave him a particularly open-mouthed kiss. His fingers stroked John’s pant button, but before he could open it, he was roughly dragged by his shoulders onto John’s lap.

“I just wanted you to kiss me,” the older man growled. “Beg me to kiss you.”

“Kiss me, kiss me, oh Jesus Christ, kiss me!” Paul’s pride was rapidly disintegrating into a pool of raw lust, as his and John’s growing hard-ons met between them. This was the first time their lips had met without the thick taste of alcohol coating them. It couldn’t have been better. A man’s mouth is hot like a woman’s, wet like a woman’s, but it feels completely different. There is dominance, a power that lies deep within, and Paul moaned. He kissed John back with equal power, knowing full well that neither of them would win. He didn’t want them to.

“Do you want me to blow you?” Paul murmured between their wet lips. “I will… I want you to fuck me, John.”

“I’d love to bugger you senseless, Macca,” John panted, running his hands over Paul’s bottom. “But if this is just to make yourself feel better, I swear to God that I will slit your throat while you sleep.”

Paul laughed despite himself and kissed his lover again. “John, I swear it. Just… Be careful, okay?”

John leered at him, roughly grasping Paul’s erection and making him gasp. “That’s right, little Paulie hasn’t ever had a nice big cock inside him, has he?” He rubbed him with the palm of his hand. “I can’t wait to feel that tight little arse around me.” 

Paul smiled, biting back a moan in the process. “Then get to it, you wanker.” The older man kissed his friend once again, laying him slowly back on the sofa. He reached into his shorts gently, stroking the hardened member with callused fingers. Paul let out a hum of appreciation and pulled his boxer shorts off. 

“I think you’re a little… overdressed, Johnny,” Paul breathed, and smiled as John scrambled to unbutton his shirt. He lay watching his lover undress, lightly squeezing his nipple and running his hands over his bare chest. Finally, John was naked and his cock was hard as he enveloped Paul’s body, kissing him passionately. 

Paul made small noises of approval and arousal as John rubbed their pricks together, never letting their mouths separate for more than a few seconds of breath. Despite his excitement though, Paul was still terrified thinking about spreading his legs for John. Even though he knew his friend would never think less of him, the small spiteful voices still hissed the word _“queer”_ into his ear. But as John’s arm wrapped around the small of his back to pull him closer, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing. “John, do it,” he whispered. “I’m ready.”

Slowly pulling his mouth away from his lover’s, John observed Paul seriously. The younger man’s face flushed as John pulled his legs apart and hooked one knee over the top of the sofa. He pressed his lips to the knee and winked at the man on the couch, before quietly trotting to the bathroom.

Paul groaned. “John, where the bloody hell are you going?!” Even though he was scared, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t rock hard.

He could hear John laugh. “You’ll see in a minute.” He returned with a bottle of liquid soap in his hand. “I can’t believe you don’t have any good, nice lotion, Macca,” he teased as he sat on the edge of the sofa. “How on earth do you wank?” He laughed loudly at Paul’s blush.

“What are you doing with that?” Paul asked cautiously as John poured the soap onto his fingers.

“Brian told me about this,” he said. He ran a finger around the small entrance and the bassist shivered. “See, this way, with the lotion, it makes it slide nice ‘n easy, just like a pussy.” John’s trademark devilish grin appeared and Paul felt a surge of arousal pulse through him.

He reddened with embarrassment and excitement as a well lubed finger slowly, carefully, dug its way inside and he whimpered, hips jerking at the sensation.

“How does it feel?” John whispered, eyes darting back and forth between his lover’s face and nether regions.

“Tight,” Paul gasped. “Put… Put another one in.” He did so, then added another without warning. The younger man moaned at the feeling, of John _filling_ him. He rocked his hips back onto the fingers, whimpering and panting desperately. 

John laughed breathlessly. “For a straight boy, you sure like having those fingers up your arse.”

Paul turned his head, humiliated, but John continued. “Come on, Paulie, I want to hear more of those delicious moans. I want all your neighbours to hear them. Let them know, Macca, how much you love me inside you.” The fingers were unrelenting and brushed against a spot that Paul had never touched, and almost didn’t believe in. It was pure, white-hot ecstasy.

The younger man bit his lip, holding back the moan that so urgently pressed against them. He wanted to moan, he wanted to scream, he wanted to yell John’s name and let every last person in the world know how much he adored this man. But he couldn’t. Despite this intense pleasure, he could still feel the fear inside him, the shame, hear every voice inside his head screaming at him _faggot!_

“I can’t, John,” he whimpered, still unable to look his lover in the eyes. “I can’t, please, not yet.”

John was silent, then leaned down and kissed Paul softly on the forehead. “Look at me,” he whispered. Reluctantly, Paul did so, and was met with a kiss on the lips. “I know this is hard for you. But I’ll be here for you, I’ll help you through it.” He paused, eyes large and nervous. “I love you, Paul.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Paul replied, “I love you too, John.” He knew he did. While coming to grips with it may have been difficult, there was never any doubt how he felt about John Lennon. He loved him, body and soul. “I want you to take me. Now, right now.”

John smiled, smiled like he had when Paul first kissed him back, and withdrew his fingers. He reached for the soap again, applying a generous amount to his own hard cock. He settled between spread thighs and with only a kiss as warning, began to push into his lover and best friend.

Paul moaned loudly—John was so much bigger than his fingers. And while it hurt, he felt so at one with himself and his partner, so completely filled, so whole. He pulled his lover’s head down and kissed him hard.

“Jesus, you’re so tight, Paul,” John muttered against his neck, thrusting slowly into the body beneath him. “So tight, so hot… So good, fuck.”

“John,” Paul sighed. “Fuck me harder, more.”

“Oh, so you do in fact like that?” John grinned at him, and upped the tempo of his thrusts. Soon, Paul was writhing on the sofa shamelessly, panting into John’s neck and tugging on his hair. Now, it didn’t matter who saw him. All that mattered was John.

Their lips met again, and Paul wouldn’t let them separate. He moaned into his mouth as John took hold of Paul’s prick, jerking it hard and fast. His motions were becoming increasingly erratic. “Macca, can’t last much longer.”

“Nn, I’m close too,” he gasped. “God, make me come, John. I want you to make me come and I want you to come inside me. Johnny, please.”

John moaned, and drove his hips impossibly hard into the younger man. Within seconds, Paul’s name fell from his lips and there was a burning, sticky wetness inside the well-loved passage. At the feeling, Paul whimpered and bucked furiously into John’s hand. He let himself scream John’s name when his orgasm overtook him, for once not giving a damn about what the neighbours thought.

The men lay together panting in the aftermath of their coupling, John still inside Paul. He grudgingly extracted himself, but the bassist held him close and kissed him softly. His fingers ran lightly through his hair, and John wrapped his arms around his lover.

“So that’s what it takes to get you to do what I want, is it? Fuck the living daylights out of you?” John teased quietly.

Paul blushed slightly, but didn’t respond. His thoughts were elsewhere. “John?”

“Hm?”

“What did George say to you?”

“Oh.” John looked somewhat embarrassed. “He said that if I didn’t care about you, that… I shouldn’t stay. For you to wake up.” 

“So you did stay.’

“Obviously I stayed.” He grinned cheekily. 

“Is that all he said?”

“Erm, all I can remember him saying.”

Paul smiled and kissed his friend gently. He could always tell when John was fibbing. Whatever else George had said, he knew that he would find out in good time. But for now, this was all he needed, laying with his lover washed in the red of the setting sun. He needed no drinks, no cigarettes, no dreams, no friends to fight for him, no this and no that. This love was all he needed.

THE END


End file.
